


Ornately Improvise

by IrishSkumring



Series: the trans holmes case files [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Coming Out, Flirting, Gen, Getting Together, M/M, Pre-Slash, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27919105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrishSkumring/pseuds/IrishSkumring
Summary: Watson decides to be honest with Holmes about himself.A story about two men with each their own secret, orbiting each other but never touching (though coming closer and closer with each round).(more tags tba).
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: the trans holmes case files [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044249
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	1. left my life on the ground

**Author's Note:**

> the long awaited (by me) prequel to the Secret Fear.
> 
> this is meant to take place at some nebulous time at the beginning of their friendship. all chapter titles (and fic title) from Yeoman by Baths.
> 
> i looked up the term lavender marriage to make sure it wasn't too anachronistic, and i think it might be? but the first usage popped up in 1895 so i MAY be good.
> 
> enjoy!

I studied Holmes from where I sat leaned back on my armchair, not really bothering to hide it. We, that is, he, had just solved a case in a way that ended most happily for all relevant parties, and in the euphoria of it I had no energy for subterfuge. Besides, I had learned quickly in this past half-year with Sherlock Holmes that I was never as subtle as I thought. Sometimes he was kind enough to let me live my fantasy. Other times he was bored, or irritable, or injected with his seven percent solution, and he was not so kind.

At the moment my roommate was sat cross legged on the floor, with what looked like hundreds of papers spread out around him, sometimes caught up in some memory or other and chuckling to himself as he read. He was stilled filled with energy from the solved case, but not the manic one that sometimes possessed him. This seemed more measured, more appropriate for menial house tasks, like re-organizing his vast files.

The case had been an odd one, and rather eye-opening for me. Two siblings, living together, with their respectable spouses. They came from a rich merchant family, and their parents had been worried their spouses were taking advantage, and being unfaithful with each other. It soon became clear to both Holmes and me that while they were certainly breaking their wedding vows, it was less insidious than the parents thought. Or, in my eyes it was - I was fully aware some would say it was more insidious.

Two lavender marriages. The brother had married his sister’s love, as she had married his. I had, for once, been ahead of Holmes on this one. We have a knack of recognising each other, us inverts, and I knew of enough lavender marriages to observe the signs. I was nervous for the entire remainder of the case, nervous for what Holmes would do - I felt sure he would not throw them to the law, but his mind was still inscrutable to me. Would he be disgusted? Tell their parents? Shame these young people who had only just found some measure of happiness? It was with utmost happiness I saw him react in the best way possible - a twinkle of understanding as the pieces fell into place, a shrug, a denial of gratitude, a request to keep up the performance a little better around their parents.

So now, here I was, contemplating the man I had come to consider my friend, wondering if I ought to tell him of myself. I am quite confident in who I am, as a person, and a man. I am attracted to women and men the same, and had enjoyed relations with both. I had no internal conflict in this, had rid myself of that years ago. But I was not naïve - I knew how the world saw me, the law. As Holmes and I had grown closer, I had long wanted to tell him - but I had had little idea how he would react, and I had been loathe to lose his friendship now. After this case, however…

«What is it, Watson?»

«Sorry?»

«You’ve been staring at me for the past quarter of an hour, doctor. Something on your mind? Usually you attempt to be subtler than this.»

I smiled to myself, let out a small chuckle. I never thought I would be as charmed by someone’s forthrightness as I was by Holmes’s. Since our first meeting he had continually surprised me - by all accounts, everything about him is anathema to what I usually find attractive in men, and yet. And yet. I won’t deny I found him handsome and good looking those early days, and we had developed a certain close bond I treasured above all. Something in me held onto the minuscule hope that if I told, he might discover something about himself, and we might pursue a somewhat closer friendship than before. The hope wasn’t bright, but it was there nonetheless.

I sat up in my armchair, leaned forward. «I was wondering if I might tell you something, Holmes.»

Holmes hadn’t looked up from his work, and waved a hand in my direction. «Of course, my friend. Anything.»

I wrung my hands, more nervous than I had been since before my military days. «Something… rather personal.» At this, he finally looked up. As he took me in, my posture, my expression, my hands, his face softened somewhat. Holmes, unlike me, was adept at hiding his feelings. It had taken me a long time to learn to read him up until this point, and even then I often missed what he didn’t wish me to see. That he allowed me this small look into his inner life bolstered my courage somewhat.

In one elegant move he rose from he floor. «Would you like a drink while you tell your tale, Watson?»

I considered saying no, but something to occupy my hands would help, so I accepted. He poured us both some brandy, and sat down on the sofa opposite me. Leaning his elbow along the back of it and his chin in his hand, he looked the epitome of masculine elegance. I almost blushed, before remembering myself. After a tentative sip and a fortifying deep breath, I began.

«I was honestly unsure if I would ever tell you this, Holmes. But I have come to trust you, and see you as one of my closest friends, if you’ll allow the liberty.» At this I could see him hiding a small, pleased smile behind his glass. «And with the Rowe case, I can now see it is safe to divulge this.»

I paused, not entirely on purpose. I had only said this out loud to a handful of people, outside of those I wished more intimate relations with. Two of those had turned badly, though not as bad as it could have - I was still here, after all, and not marked a criminal. Holmes had an intense expression as he studied me. I’ve no doubt he had put two and two together, and had an idea of what I wished to tell him. Yet he allowed me my time, which I am grateful for. I caught his eyes with mine, and suddenly the words were no longer lodged in the back of my throat. «I am rather like the elder mr. Rowe, though not entirely. I enjoy the company of both men and women, immensely so.»

Holmes’s expression relaxed from its intensity, and he sat back on the sofa, contemplating my words. I took a sip of my drink, expecting my nerves to fail me but finding them curiously steadfast.

«I appreciate your honesty, Watson. I must say, I had my suspicions of you. No, no, you have not been obvious - in this, at least, you are adept at concealing yourself. But we have shared rooms for some time now, I have been able to observe you in company, and the Rowe case only confirmed my suspicions.»

I frowned, unsure how I felt at the revelation. I ought not be surprised, and I suppose I wasn’t, but it still felt somehow as if something had been robbed for me. I couldn’t be cross with Holmes, however - it is only how his mind works. That is to say, it _always_ works, and rarely rests. «How did the Rowe case confirm it? I hardly spoke with them more than you.»

«Ah, but when you did it was with a certain… _familiarity_ , that I have only ever observed between others of your persuasion.» Holmes stood up and moved over to the mantle where he kept his tobacco. With quick movement he fished out a cigarette, and lit it. I had always liked his silhouette when he leaned on the mantle and smoked. Sometimes he would rub his chin, like some bearded men do when lost in thought. «Why now?»

«I’m sorry?»

«You mentioned you were not sure if you should tell me. You know I am the soul of discretion, my dear Watson, I would never be careless with your secret.»

I blushed and looked down, somewhat embarrassed. «I honestly wasn’t sure how you’d react, Holmes.» Looking up, I could see a flash of indignation on his face. «You need to understand my position—»

«I would never call the law on you, Watson! You know my feelings on its fallibility. I would not so callous—»

«I never thought you would, not after I got to know you, but you must understand I have lost friends before. You may not have wanted to throw me in jail or Bedlam, but I could not be sure you wouldn’t distance yourself until I moved out!»

This silenced him. Curiously, it seemed like this had not even occurred to him as a possibility. I stood up to refill our glasses, having difficulty retaining eye-contact while talking about this. «Until the Rowe case, until I saw the tact you conducted yourself with around them, without a hint of personal disgust, I had always had a nibbling doubt that I could lose your friendship.» I handed him his glass again, which he accepted but made no move to drink from. Straightening my back, I looked him in the eyes once again, only a few inches between us. «Some men are of the opinion that inverts cannot be friends with their own sex without… carnal intentions. I would hate to lose your friendship now, Holmes.»

He didn’t answer, but for a short nod. I sat back down, suddenly exhausted in body and mind. It had taken more from me than I expected, this confession. But I felt lighter, and it was a good exhaustion, like after a thrilling chase of a suspect. We both enjoyed the silence for some time, him smoking, me with my eyes closed. After some minutes I heard rustling, and saw him take out his violin. While he prepared his instrument, he talked. «Have you ever wished for a situation like the Rowes, Watson?»

I blinked, and smiled. «Once, yes. Maybe I will again.» At his questioning look I shook my head. «The army, there was a fellow. He was killed not long before I took the jezail bullet.» The memory of Thomas no longer haunted me like it had once, but it was still something I preferred not to dwell to much on. I had seen what had happened to men who got lost in the could-have-beens of the past. It was no use, he was long dead and I had survived. I closed my eyes again as Holmes began a piece on his violin, content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof. I'm still not sure if I have Holmes's voice entirely down, but I'm happy with this first chapter I think. I have three planned, the next two outlined. Shouldn't exceed 5k words, ideally.
> 
> i've always enjoyed Watson as a bi man who is wholly comfortable in his identity. a self-indulgent headcanon, maybe, but in line with his character i think.
> 
> let me know what you think!


	2. wellspring of adventure that is begging to embark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "all the chapters all planned out" i said. "it won't take long" i said.
> 
> anyway.
> 
> small content warning in the end notes!

The next few weeks were, in stark opposition to the other times Holmes had gone long between cases, filled with activity and conversation. He often took me to concerts he enjoyed, and I in turn took him to plays — or, I attempted to. He agreed to some, but our tastes in narratives were too different. There was one particularly enjoyable evening he had, against his own sense I’m sure, agreed to accompany me to a play I knew nothing of. It was utterly boring, but we entertained each other with whispered commentary and imitations of the actors. We had emerged from the theatre in high spirits, I near giggling.

Other nights were spent talking long into the night, with wine and leftover food. Some nights we were alerted of how long we’d kept our conversation by Mrs. Hudson bringing in our breakfast and tut-tutting at us. I had not enjoyed myself for so long in some time, so it took me some days to recognise that this was far from usual. One night, after an evening spent eating at our favourite restaurant and enjoying a concert of Mozart, I found myself studying Holmes as he held a monologue on the nature of mud and soil. While I always — with very few exceptions, and those were near always marked with concern for my friend —enjoyed time spent with Holmes, we had never done so much together before. Attending concerts, eating at restaurants, dragging him to plays; these were not out of the ordinary, but never before had they happened with so much frequency.

I found that a part of me… hoped. It was small, and I was scared to feed it, but it lived nonetheless. That all this had happened after my confession to Holmes… Well, one could not blame a fellow for getting certain thoughts. I tried to tell myself that this was merely Holmes assuring me of his friendship, but that seemed out of character for him. There was no need to assure me, and he knew that, I was sure of it.

And so my hope lived, my small hope that maybe, possibly, this was Holmes showing his interest. Like a bird building a pretty nest for his beloved. At that thought, I had to fight down a blush. _Beloved_. Surely not. Besides which, Holmes had no interest in men. I was frankly unsure he had an interest in anyone: he had always dismissed women, and when they showed themselves to be as competent (if not more) as men, he gave them their due respect, but nothing beyond that. I had never seen him looking at a man any different than he does everyone — calculating, observant, sometimes disinterested.

Yet… yet, yet, yet. As I have said, most of us inverts have a knack for recognising each other. There’s a hidden language, of sorts, a code of looks, way of holding ourselves, certain articles of clothing worn in a certain way. With Holmes I had never observed any of these signs. He was adept at hiding himself, it was true, both physically and emotionally, but I could not help but think we would have seen each other had he shown the signs. That was before my confession, however. He did not show any of the traditional signs, of someone consciously signalling a potential like-mind, but there was something in his changed behaviour my mind insisted on attributing to… flirting, to put it plainly.

I startled in my seat Holmes snapped his fingers in front of my face. When I gave him an apologetic look for drifting away, he only laughed. «Not to worry, my dear man. No doubt I shall have cause to lecture you on the subject in the future sometime.» We smiled at each other, as I reflected on how pleasing the thought of a future with Holmes was.

«Many times, I should think, Holmes. I never had the mind for memory you do.»

«Indeed, few do, Watson. You do, however, possess the unique gift of earnestly attempting to follow along my thoughts.» He tilted his head, and amended, «Most of the time.»

Holmes was standing beside my chair, his body angled towards me, and one hand leaning on the back of my chair. As he studied my face, I felt that same hand lift and very lightly brush over the back of my neck. I gave him a searching look, before deciding: I leaned my head to the side and exposed that part of my neck to his questing fingers. They continued, touch still light but growing surer. Soon they changed path, and brushed my ear, my short sideburns. A sigh escaped me, my eyes closed without my input.

A cough sounded from above, and suddenly the touch was gone. My eyes fluttered open, and flicked immediately to Holmes. He had distanced himself, and turned away, as if he did not want me to see his face. I found that I was not as confused as I may have been, once. Rather, I was chewing on an idea.

I cleared my throat.

«I think I shall head to bed, old boy. I’ve some appointments with my clients tomorrow.» Holmes did not turn, but he did nod in answer. He had his pipe out, and was packing it with tobacco. It was the particular pipe he only ever used when he wanted to calm his mind, I noted. As I passed him, I touched his shoulder briefly. «Good night, Holmes.»

* * *

Some days later, Holmes was interrogating me on the secret languages of inverts.

«Holmes, you do understand that I cannot teach you everything?»

«I appreciate that some of it is innate, yes.»

I shook my head. «You misunderstand me. Yes, some is innate, but much of it is — frankly, Holmes, they are not just my own secrets to keep. We are _criminals_ , in the eyes of the law,» I gave him a crooked smile, «something about honour among thieves, you know.»

Holmes took in this information. He was lain out on the sofa in his housecoat and shirtsleeves, chewing on the end of one of his pipes. Not smoking it; he had told me once he did not always wished to smoke, but it helped his thinking. «I do pride myself on my camouflaging abilities, Watson.» I nodded. «It would be of immense help if I could know these codes, should I ever have need of them while in costume. I would never divulge it to anyone who would take advantage of the knowledge.»

«When would you ever need to be camouflaged as an invert, Holmes?» I asked, incredulous. His whole body stilled, and I narrowed my eyes at him slightly.

«I will not know until it happens, Watson!» he waved a hand dismissively.

I did not want to upset my friend, and he could be right. I sighed, poured myself some tea from the pot Mrs. Hudson had left us that morning. «Very well, Holmes. A compromise.»

At this he sat up, ears perked. I hid my smile in the cup, pleased whenever I managed to excite Holmes. «A sailor I knew many years ago once tried to teach me Polari. Do you know it?»

«A mixed language. Some Romani is involved, I believe. I was under the impression it is a thieves’ language.»

«As I said, honour among thieves. No, you are correct; it is not only used by us inverts. But some of us have adopted it, especially men at sea. I never had a knack for it —you know my poor efforts at learning languages —but I retain enough words and phrases to recognise it.»

A smile had slowly spread on Holmes’ face as I talked, lighting up his face like the sun never could, and when I finished he clapped his hands once and leapt up. «Excellent! This will be most helpful, dear friend.»

We spent the day going over what glossary I remembered — some of it was surely outdated, or words we would never hear in the bowels of London (I had learned from a sailor, after all; these things tended to evolve when separated), but Holmes showed great interest nonetheless. I begged him to not write any of it down, which he agreed to easily. «I have an excellent memory, Watson, you’re well aware,» he sniffed.

After some time he asked if I knew some more… _uncouth_ words. «After all, I should not be a prude who does not know them, should I ever have use of this language.» He avoided my eyes as he spoke, busying himself with something at the mantle.

I looked down, cleared my throat. I decided to leap into this unknown territory with Holmes, that thrice-damned hope still burning in my chest. «Indeed. Where, ah, where would you like to start?»

«How about something simple. Is there a word for men like you?»

«Men who like both? Why, yes. _Bibi_ is the word Gethin taught me.»

He nodded, and, hesitation apparently done with, sat down beside on the sofa. We had both migrated around the room as we talked, Holmes with restless energy, me preferring the sofa for my knee. «Body parts, then.»

I stroked my moustache. A nervous gesture I was sure Holmes was aware of. « _Lills_ is the word for hands. _Orbs_ are eyes; _eek_ face; _rallies_ legs.» I swallowed. Many of the words had double meanings. Of course, as the language was used most often to talk about certain acts. « _Plate_ ,» I blurted. No going back now. «Means feet.»

Holmes raised his eyebrows, obviously catching my uncommon nervousness. I blushed. «And a certain… _act_.»

«An act that is sexual in nature, I presume?»

I coughed, caught off guard that Holmes should speak so freely, after avoiding my eyes so when he asked for the knowledge. Was he closer to me than before?

«Indeed,» I nodded, sure my face was still aflame. «The act of fellating.» Holmes merely nodded at this. He was closer; he was leaning his head on the fist of his hand, which arm was draped along the back of the sofa. His eyes bored into mine.

«And… and cartes. From cazzo.» I trusted his knowledge of Italian was good enough to tell him what that meant. Good lord, that a medical doctor should be so affected by the subject matter he could not even utter the word penis? It was a perfectly professional word when discussing the human body in a scientific matter. Yet here I was, tongue-tied.

«What of…» Holmes hesitated, mouth open mid-sentence. I could sense that he was choosing his words carefully, in a way he rarely did. «…men who become women?» he settled on. I frowned. I knew of a few crossdressers, of course —mollies who liked dressing up, or whose partners wanted to pretend they were not laying with another man. But men _becoming_ women? There was a word… I had laughed it off when Gethin had told me it, but it had stuck. «I do not know if there is a word for that, but there is _remould_ — Gethin translated it as sex change.» I gave a small laugh as I said it, the medical man in me amused by the notion. Holmes did not share in my amusement. There was a tightness around his eyes, which killed any amusement I felt.

«Watson, I ought to tell you—»

The door opened, effectively interrupting what Holmes was about to say. I shot up from my place as Mrs. Hudson bustled in. «Your dinner, gentlemen.» Any look of apprehension on Holmes’ face was gone, as he stood up and thanked Mrs. Hudson with a smile. Though he did not look at me as he took his place by the table, I was too relieved to see that he would eat with me to be slighted by this.

He did not bring up Polari again, after that day.

* * *

I had lost Holmes. I looked around me frantically, my breath coming out short and fast as I ran. _I had lost Holmes_.

The gang chasing us was still behind me, I could hear them shouting. Without thinking I dove into a dark space that could barely be described as an alleyway. My breathing was too loud —it was night time, few other sounds on the streets on this end of town. I scrabbled as far in as I could, until my shoulder hit a wall. I sank down, clapped a hand over my mouth. Tried to forcibly slow my breathing, as I saw shadows passing the mouth of the alleyway. _One, two, three_ … Two were missing. Five had been chasing us, now three were after me, two had gone another way, and _I had lost Holmes._

I squeezed my eyes shut. No longer could I hear anyone passing, a roaring sound in my ears too loud. In a desperate bid to stay silent I sucked in a breath of air and held it. When my lungs were burning — I had no way of telling how much time had passed, as it seemed to simultaneously go too slow and too fast — I pursed my lips and endeavoured to blow out the air slowly. The roaring in my ears abated. I opened my eyes. No one was near me; no one was passing the alleyway.

Slowly, carefully I crawled towards the opening, and looked out. Empty. Of course, there could still be stragglers, scouts, but I found I did not care. _Holmes_. I needed to find Holmes.

I moved quickly back the way I’d come, when I heard a shout and the distinct sound of a gunshot in the other direction. With a swear I turned — but I was careless, my knee was acting up and the cobblestones slippery with the morning’s rain, and soon my face met the ground. Thankfully my shoulder took most of the brunt, but my forehead hurt and I could feel something — _blood, definitely blood_ — drip down. I groaned, slowly got on my feet again. There was blood in my eye now, and I had to close it as I ran towards the sound once more.

Something crashed into me as I rounded a corner. «Watson!» Holmes! I felt him take my shoulders, before his hands quickly migrated to my face. «Watson, you’re hurt.»

«It’s nothing, it’s nothing — my own fault, I slipped — Holmes, are you all right? I heard gunshots»

«I am fine, they won’t be an issue anymore — John, I lost you, I thought they had — _John_.» Suddenly I felt lips on my cheek, my forehead, his fingers like brackets on either side of my face continually stroking me, until the lips met my own. A high whine rose in the back of my throat as I clutched Holmes’ arms, his back, his neck. Too soon we were parted, but I kept a hold on the back of his head, holding our foreheads together. We were both breathing harshly, and I was half-blind, but as I opened one eye I saw Holmes rawer than I ever had before.

«Holmes…» I moved my hands, one covering one of his on my cheek, the other down to his waist — «Holmes!»

«John, I—»

«You’re hurt!» And indeed, there at his waist was a tear through his clothes, and the unmistakable wet feeling of blood. Holmes pulled back from our embrace.

«Ah. Yes. There was a very competent swordsman…»

«Swordsman! My god, Holmes. Home, we need to get home, right now.»

We separated entirely, and in I felt the cold invading every part he had touched. But we had time to speak of this later — there were more life-threatening concerns in this moment.

* * *

Neither of our wounds were so bad as that. Head wounds tend to bleed profusely, but once I had cleaned myself up the wound itself was rather small, no stitches needed. Holmes had had worse even in the time I had known him, and after bandaging the wound I felt confident it would heal nicely on its own.

Holmes was sat unnaturally still as I tended him. As usual he kept his shirt on, only holding the hem high enough for me to work. He avoided my eyes throughout, barely acknowledging me as I declared myself done. «Holmes, about what happened,» I started, as I washed my hands in the basin.

«No need, Watson,» said Holmes, brusquely. I turned to look at him as I dried my hands. He was turned away from me, buttoning up his vest. «You know well how high strung nerves become in dangerous situations, my good doctor.»

«Holmes, I still think we ought to—»

«I think I shall head to bed. Do give Mrs. Hudson my apologies for scaring her. Good night!» And with that he disappeared up the stairs to his room. I was stunned. Did he really mean to ignore it? The desperate kisses, the embrace, _John…_

I shook myself. I had known men like him before — inexperienced, scared of themselves, ready to dismiss and ignore that part of their heart. No matter. I was sure I could get through to Holmes, now that I knew my affections were indeed returned. I could not help the smile that spread on my face, the happiness that swelled in my chest — Holmes, kissing me! It had been a sweet nectar, to be sure, and one I found I did not want to let go of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Watson is ignorant of trans people. It feels a little out of the character I've ascribed to him, but that was supposed to be the crux of their early-relationship issues. He dismisses their existence as either dress-up/crossdressing, or implied "tricking" men/those around them. 
> 
> Polari is/was a real code language, many of the individual words are still in usage! Holmes is wrong that it's a thieves' language - many people from boaters on the Thames, sailors, fishmongers, etc used it. Nearly all of the words I use here I pulled from wikipedia, so:  
> -I don't know how correct they are. There were also dialects of Polari, among those a stark difference between the West End theatre world and the East End canal speak. I assume that the sailors had their own particular dialect as well.  
> -I don't know how period appropriate these words are. I suspect both bibi and remould are newer than the vague 1890s I've set this story in, but there was no information about that. I decided I might as well fudge this.
> 
> Gethin was genuinely just the first name I thought of. Let's pretend it's a homage to Gethin from the Pride film.
> 
> one chapter left, kids. they'll get their heads in order in the next one, I promise!


End file.
